


A Midnight's Conversation

by le_disco_inferno



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1940's au, No established relationship, Original Character(s), Short One Shot, WW2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23919196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_disco_inferno/pseuds/le_disco_inferno
Summary: Sherlock Holmes believes in two things: Himself, and the curious nature of mankind exposed in an English pub after midnight. Kate Webster believes in nothing anymore, nothing but the will that one finds, in the deepest crevices and the darkest shadows, to carry on.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 1





	A Midnight's Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> This is it. I had originally planned for this to be the first chapter of a longish work... perhaps I'll continue it down the track. If so, there will be Johnlock. So much Johnlock.

**Kate's POV**

_Steam curls into the ceiling’s white lining, heavy in the air, rolling, folding over itself, languid. Mould would appear later she knew, as sudden and expected as the greys making their advance at her temples. Water leapt at her from the copper pot, stinging. She flinched, nearly tripping, scraping desperately to take it from her skin, knocking the ration booklet to the floor, aflutter. Grease stuck. She ran frigid water over shaking fingers, focusing on the faint pressure of it, pulsing. Everything was too warm, the air wet, stifling, clinging inside her lungs, stuck, her clothes sucking, wet on her skin, hair damp against her neck, smothering._

_The meat rose and fell in the tumultuous water, tumbling, sallow in the depths, a bizarre parody of living movement._

*********

**Sherlock's POV**

Opening the heavy, dragging door, Sherlock was greeted with all the intensity of midnight’s chilling air, as it burrowed deep, straight through the thickness of his overcoat. It overwhelmed the humidity of the bar, warm air leaving the room along with the invalid cheers of thoroughly drunk men, both on beer, and the paling success of another battle won— to float into the street’s high flung canopy of stars. Ephemeral energy leaked through his veins, quicksilver.

The stars’ comfort seemed distant, shivering bright in the surrounding depths of space, a broad tremor that reached right into him, shaking, drawing images of men, line after line, as they, in their ardent patriotism, vaulted over the trenches, one after the other, lunging into death—rifles cracking, high and infernal, a notification of some poor man’s passage.

A motorcycle puttered by, hacking fumes into the street, the intrepid rider wobbling slightly on his newfangled toy, disturbing a hound from it’s gnawing to howl its dominance over that ludicrous creature’s metallic growl.

The dog’s meal seemed strange, oddly shaped, even from where Sherlock still stood, embracing the world’s frenetic, late-night energy.

Up close, the dog proved to be male, deep-chested, wiry, black streaks running through the prevalent whites. Nothing like Redbeard. He clutched his prize close, glowing eyes reaching Sherlock’s in the dark—suspicious.

The dog was eating a foot. A human foot, he realized. Withered, greying, the solid flesh hanging loose.

**Kate's POV**

Kate Webster wandered out of the kitchen, away from the heat. She found herself at the top of the stairs. Closing her eyes over the memories forcing themselves up, she clutched at the railing, white knuckled, her grip obdurate. Tremors forcing their way through her, throwing her hand away, air stuttering weakly in her throat. Falling to the floor, she resigned, her very thoughts a trap, spiraling into the deep.

*********

_Keys rattled grim in the lock, the small, insignificant sound echoing bravely through the kitchen, up the stairs. Kate heard. She’d been waiting for this, had been meaning to talk to her. But now, she wasn’t sure why she was here._

_She was certain of the rage, of the pressure inside her, hearing Miss Martha speak, hearing her breathe, watching her move, graceless._

_It ground, ricocheting inside of her, and it hurt, and she didn’t understand. And so the rage came and went. She felt certain in this, her anger._

_She pressed her bare feet into the floor, until bones were smudged against skin, cold and hard against the soft heat encasing her._

_There was a shuffling in the foyer, then a voice, low, but flexing, tense then smooth, calling, “Kate? Are you there?” a pause, a heartbeat, then, “I bought oranges! They had them at the grocer’s.”_

_There was a certain twisting guilt in her, though it meant nothing._

_She was the maid; she was allowed to be here. Supposed to be._

_The shuffling moved up the stairs._

_And in that instant, the shuffling wasn’t up the stairs._

_It was through the corridors, the neon lights flickering, dimming, returning, and dimming again, and it was a hurricane, bouncing through the hospital walls, the sharp antiseptic shot through with sweat and blood and fear. And the screaming wasn’t just the soldiers’ pain, it was the nurses’, a soprano of terror. And the shuffling was here—and a ghoul was looming before her, cadaverous under the fluctuant light, metallic eyes glinting, demonic, mouth covered by a mask, but she knew he was leering, growling, ready to consume._

_She opened her mouth, joining in this terrified soprano, resonating within the halls. And this ghoul was in front of her, and under her and she was screaming. They both were. And Kate didn’t know when she’d moved, and her fists were moving, and they were reaching and they were hurting, and her heart didn’t feel so heavy, and tears were falling, and then they both were, and the world was spinning with them down the steps, and the ghoul was screaming and there was blood, so much blood, the redness suffocating, invigorating, and suddenly her hands were at Miss Martha’s throat, and she wasn’t screaming, she was choking, and Kate couldn’t let go._

*********

Kate’s back was pressed dreadfully down, into the floor, spine cramped, tears upon her face catching a faint chill, transferring itself down into her bones and through her veins, heart slowing, pumping, churning ice.

She walked back to the kitchen.

The water boiled, pockets of air stretching, climbing to join the expanse of its brethren without, bursting through the layers of molten fat—rendered, gasping furiously into the air.

*********

**Sherlock's POV**

The hound lay smouldering, curled proudly over the offensive appendage, eyes ringed with fire, shrouded in the deepness of savage nobility.

Producing a lucent crystal vial from an elusive pocket, and a clean syringe from another, he drew the vicious liquid deliberately into the syringe, until it brimmed passive at the line stating ‘25 ml’ then re-stoppered the vial, fingers never stumbling, even this close to the wrathful heat of the dog’s sceptical gaze.

Approaching closer now, temerity colouring his movements gold, smooth in the inky-blue darkness pervading the street, Sherlock snaps his elegant fingers out, plunging the syringe deep into the dog’s mighty flank. The smoldering eyes extinguished, for a time.

And so Sherlock grasped his prize, mind whirling, measuring, placing one fact with the others, careful to keep from voicing his queries, settling firmly on the beginnings of a plan, as his long-fingered hands held the auxiliary of his case.

*********

Coat billowing in the wind, he thrust himself inside, closing the black painted door behind him, to see a letter pressed accusingly under the doorjamb. “Oh for bloody sakes!” He cursed, glaring at the thing. Snatching it from the floor, he slammed his way up the stairs, tossing the foot onto a table, inspecting the letter further. Mycroft _could not_ leave him alone.

_ Sherlock, New intel on the German Enigma.  _

_ Your assistance is needed.  _

_ I expect to see you at 06:00 in my office.  _

_ Leave your dithering.  _

_ This is a matter of great importance.  _

_ And I can have you fired brother dear. _

_\- Mycroft Holmes, Minister of Economic Warfare_

Sherlock supposed he must go. But tonight — to business.

*********

Drunken conversation frittered aimlessly through the pub’s glooming air, a remark tossed lazily from slurring lips met with senseless laughter, badges glinting in the dim light upon heaving breasts, sending vague reflections to scatter in the comfortable room. 

Sherlock sifted through the pub’s occupants, elderly men, war-weary, backs ramrod straight, only wishing that the war would end soon, and the fresh-faced youth, khaki uniform displayed proudly, chest puffed, anticipating only adventure, not horror, blood, and monotony.

His eyes settled on the form of a lady, seated at the far end of the bar, shadows crowding into her, settling into the creases of her blue dress. She didn’t notice the tall man’s gaze directed upon her, focusing instead her attention upon the golden depths of her glass, ignoring the disapproving scowls thrust upon her by the residing men.

He slid onto the stool next to hers, taking in her slumped shoulders, blank, glassy slots where the windows to her soul should’ve been, the ragged fingernails, where her hand clutched the glass close.

Nodding in her direction, he answered the bartenders questioning glance with his order. Two glasses of swirling liquid amber were set down, one he gestured to be set afore the lady. She caught his eyes with her own, eyebrow raised quizzically. Sherlock simply smiled in response, gesturing to the military, boys and men alike. “They seem happy.” She let a smile trace itself softly into her face, for a moment, “They always do, at the start. Those ones—” she gestured to the older men, clumped together affably— “know better though—” she swirled the rich liquid slowly— “they’ll just be glad to have made it home again.” The yellow light cast the room rosy-warm, relaxing, and Sherlock found himself agreeing. “You sound as if you’ve experienced this for yourself, Miss…”

“Webster” she replied, “Kate Webster. Why yes, I suppose I have. I was a nurse, posted to an evacuation hospital. You’d see them realise what they’d really got themselves into in those hospitals.” Her forehead wrinkled dramatically into a frown against the memory. Sherlock nodded slowly, leaning slightly against steepled fingertips, “Ahh, I see.” He looked down, searching the woman’s face “And you must’ve done the same.” Kate emptied her glass. “Yes, I guess I did,” she admitted softly, “I damn near lost my soul.”

Another drink landed in front of them both, and they drank together under the yellowing light, the pub’s jovial walls standing between them and the congregation of purpling shadows.


End file.
